


A Cracked Mirror

by kalirush



Category: White Collar, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Mutant Neal, Not a Superhero AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalirush/pseuds/kalirush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They found it on the mandatory blood test when they processed Caffrey into Sing Sing: the X-gene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cracked Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This is not set in any particular X-verse- really just sort of the X-Men I remember from when I was a kid. I couldn't be bothered to source or check anything. But this story really isn't about the X-Men, anyway.

They found it on the mandatory blood test when they processed Caffrey into Sing Sing: the X-gene. It was a surprise, and it delayed his transfer into the prison while they assessed him. Caffrey claimed that even he hadn’t known, but you couldn’t trust him on that.  
  
It meant a certain amount of fame for Peter. Bringing in Neal Caffrey was a career-making case, but the fact that he was a mutant made it all that much more impressive. It kind of explained Caffrey’s ridiculous number of skills, too. There weren’t many people who could forge bonds _and_ fine art _and_ passports _and_ gems and who were also con men and cat-burglars and safecrackers.  
  
After some testing, they identified him as a mid-level empath with enhanced senses and fine motor control. They considered sending him to the Vault, but decided against it. The Vault usually housed violent offenders- terrorists and murderers. Caffrey was just a thief who loved art and hated violence. Sing Sing agreed to take him as long as they could block his powers somehow. His physical abilities weren’t enough to make him a serious threat, so they fitted him with a psi-damper and put him into supermax.  
  
That should have been the end of it, for four years at least.  
  
\---------------------------  
  
Three months later, there was a card on the table when Peter got home.  
  
This wasn’t a huge surprise in and of itself; it was his birthday, and it wasn’t the only card he got. This card, though, wasn’t signed. It was also hand-drawn in what looked like ballpoint. On the front was a lifelike portrait of a man in a baseball uniform, bat held steady in his hands. _Hope your birthday is a home-run_ , it said on the inside- in Peter’s own handwriting.  
  
“Is that from Neal Caffrey?” El asked him.  
  
“I guess so,” Peter said, staring at the card. Caffrey had sent them before; usually hand-made. He wondered, again, how he’d _missed_ it. He’d thought he’d had Caffrey pegged, but somehow, he hadn’t realized the man was a mutant.  
  
He told himself that that was probably why he found himself being passed through security at Sing Sing a week later. They ushered him into a dingy room full of tables. A few minutes later, they brought Caffrey in, shackled but grinning. There was a heavy, clunky collar around his neck, its indicator light glowing green.  
  
“Caffrey,” he said, by way of greeting.  
  
Caffrey managed to saunter despite the leg chains. He sat down opposite Peter, still grinning. “Agent Burke. You got my birthday card,” he said, smugly.  
  
“You knew I like baseball,” he said. “Very thoughtful. Not disturbing at all.”  
  
“I try for that balance,” Caffrey said.  
  
“It’s a fine line,” Peter commented.  
  
“Why’d you come see me?” Caffrey asked. “Couldn’t resist seeing what I look like in orange?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Personally, I think it washes me out.”  
  
Peter wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw- _something_ in Caffrey’s tone. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but it was something off. “Just wanted to see how you were settling in,” he said, lightly, since he didn’t actually have a good answer. He felt stupid, suddenly. This wasn’t a zoo, and Caffrey wasn’t a monkey. He shouldn’t have come to stare at him. “Clearly, you’re doing just fine. I’ll let you get back to redecorating your cell.” He made to stand up.  
  
Caffrey smiled, just a touch too fast. “I’m in no hurry to get back,” he said. “The stucco’s drying, and my throw pillows haven’t been delivered yet.”  
  
Peter stopped. Caffrey’s body language was loose and easy, like he was bantering with an old friend. But there, in his eyes, there was a tenseness Peter hadn’t expected. “Yeah?” he said. “Do they have nice throw pillows here?”  
  
“All the latest styles,” Caffrey told him. “So, had any good cases lately? Surely none of them can be as interesting as mine. Regular life must be such a let-down.”  
  
Peter snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “And I suspect my superiors would frown on my discussing cases with a convicted felon.”  
  
Caffrey smiled. “I hope you got a promotion out of this, at least,” he said.  
  
“A promotion and a commendation,” Peter assured him.  
  
“Good,” Caffrey said, and he looked unnervingly sincere. “It was impressive work. I’m glad to hear they appreciate you at the Bureau.”  
  
Peter shook his head. “Now you’re just complimenting yourself, Caffrey,” he said.  
  
Caffrey shook his head, and there was a flash of weariness on his face. “I think I need to go back to my cell,” he said. “But come back any time, Agent Burke,” he added, as he sauntered off behind the guard.  
  
Peter asked the guards for Caffrey’s visitor records on his way out, official business or no official business. There had been something off about Caffrey, and he wanted to know what it was.  
  
\--------------------------  
  
Peter waited until he was home that night to look at the papers they gave him. As it turned out, it was a short list. In his three months in Sing Sing, Caffrey had had precisely one visitor before today: Kate Moreau. She’d visited him once, two weeks after he processed in. She’d never visited again. There were no other names. Peter guessed that most of Caffrey’s friends would rather not walk into a prison if they could help it. But they had nothing on Kate; she didn’t have anything to fear visiting Caffrey. Peter shook his head.  
  
“Something stumping you?” El asked, smiling at him.  
  
Peter shook his head. “I was just looking at Caffrey’s visitor logs. He was... off, when I visited him today. I was wondering if he was up to something- maybe trying to escape. Now I wonder if maybe he was just lonely.”  
  
“Lonely?” El said. “He always seemed like the kind of man who could make friends anywhere, even prison,” she said.  
  
Peter shook his head. “He’s in supermax,” he said. “It’s basically solitary, all the time.” he frowned. “It’s for his own protection, mostly. He can’t pass as _Homo sapiens_ with that damper collar on, and there are a lot of anti-mutant gangbangers in Sing Sing. And the Marshals wouldn’t agree to put him in a lower security prison, not with some of his abilities undamped and him already a flight risk. They don’t want another Steven Russell on their hands, not here in New York.”  
  
El winced. “That’s got to be hard for him.”  
  
“Prison is supposed to be hard,” Peter said.  
  
El tipped her head. “Still, I can’t imagine what it would be like to spend four years alone.”  
  
Peter sighed. “That’s the law, El,” he said. “And it could have been more- we only got him on bond forgery. I’m pretty sure he’s done a lot worse than that.”  
  
“I know,” El said. She smiled and kissed him. “But still. That sounds rough.”  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
It was three more weeks before Peter found himself headed for Sing Sing again. It was a Saturday, and he was between cases, and El was working, and it just happened to coincide with Caffrey’s allowed visiting days. _Why the hell not?_ he figured.  
  
Caffrey looked both pleased and bemused. “We meet again, Agent Burke,” he said. “I didn’t even have to send you a card this time.”  
  
“Don’t get a big head,” Peter said. “It was this or catch up on my paperwork. And I hate doing paperwork on weekends.” It wasn’t quite true, of course. Not the part about doing paperwork on weekends; that was true. But there were other things he could be doing right now: watching TV, walking Satchmo... But he’d been fascinated- maybe obsessed- by Neal Caffrey for more than three years, and it was a hard habit to break.  
  
“Do you play chess?” Caffrey asked, shaking him out of his reverie.  
  
“You know my favorite sandwich order, but you don’t know whether I play chess?” Peter asked. Caffrey had had a habit of ordering takeaway for the surveillance van.  
  
“Somehow, it never came up when you were chasing me,” Caffrey said.  
  
There was a board in the visiting room, and Caffrey set up the pieces. He gave Peter white. Peter wasn’t sure whether it was out of consideration or condescension. Peter didn’t actually give much for his chances; Caffrey was a hell of a tactical thinker, and Peter hadn’t played in years. He reached out and moved one of his pawns forward.  
  
“Classic,” Caffrey commented. “I’ve always loved the classics.” He moved his own pawn. “So, why _did_ you visit this time, Agent Burke? Is it the X-gene?”  
  
Peter felt his face go a little warm. “Er-”  
  
“Not that I’m complaining,” Caffrey said. “You and the guards are the only people I’ve seen in three months, so if you want to come gawk at the mutant, I don’t mind.”  
  
“I didn’t come to gawk,” Peter protested.  
  
Caffrey smiled. “Yeah, you did,” he said.  
  
Peter opened and closed his mouth. “Okay,” he admitted. “A little. Mainly, I just wanted to know how I _missed_ it...”  
  
Caffrey laughed. “ _You_ want to know how you missed it. If you’re a mutant, you think you’d know.”  
  
“You really didn’t know?” Peter asked. Not that it made much of a difference, now.  
  
“I really didn’t,” Caffrey said, shrugging. “It’s not like I’m blue, or can shoot lasers from my hands. I knew I was better at some things than other people, but I figured I was just talented.”  
  
Caffrey was already winning the chess game. Peter wasn’t sure exactly how, but he could just _tell_. “I got tested when I joined the Bureau,” he offered. “I’m plain old _Homo sapiens_ , in case you were wondering.”  
  
“Do they let mutants work for the FBI?” Caffrey asked, moving his bishop up.  
  
Peter shrugged. “If they don’t have a history with mutant terrorist organizations, sure. Most of the really powerful mutants have already gotten mixed up with either Lensherr’s group or Xavier’s, though, so we mostly end up with the less impressive talents.” He smiled. “Still, I caught you, even without an X-gene,” he pointed out.  
  
“So you did. Oh, and check,” Caffrey added, with a blinding smile. “Mate in three moves.”  
  
\-------------------------  
  
El was curious when he told her he’d gone to visit again. “What’s the verdict?” she asked. “Lonely, or about to pull a prison break?”  
  
Peter paused, thoughtful. “Lonely,” he said, finally. “I’d’ve thought he would have tried to break out by now, to go after Kate. But he doesn’t seem on edge or watchful. Just... sad.”  
  
El frowned. “It must be over with them,” she said. “You said she visited once. I wonder if she was saying goodbye.”  
  
“Huh,” Peter said, because it was just a little bit too uncomfortable to think about Caffrey’s personal life. Especially since he knew how the guy felt about Kate; it was how he’d tracked him down, after all. “On the other, hand, he is a con man. Maybe I misread him.”  
  
El smiled. “My Agent Burke, fooled by a con? I don’t think so.”  
  
Peter laughed. “He’s not just any con,” he pointed out. “He’s Neal Caffrey.”  
  
\--------------------------  
  
A new card arrived a few weeks later. This one came to his work address, in the middle of a stack of inter-departmental notices. Peter fished it out. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but the return address was Sing Sing, and he didn’t get many letters from cons- much less ones from high-security facilities. Maybe Caffrey had actually used his own handwriting for once.  
  
The front of the card was painted in shades of washed-out ink, a ragged sailing vessel emerging from the mist. It was hard to say, given the scale, but Peter could imagine that the tiny captain at its prow looked like him. He opened it up, but it was blank inside. Peter sighed.  
  
“You were trying to get my attention,” Peter said, the next weekend. “What do you want?”  
  
“You’re looking for the Dutchman,” Caffrey said, and Peter thought he sounded just a little smug.  
  
“I could ask how you found that out,” Peter said, “But I think I’d rather ask why you felt the need to tell me about it.”  
  
“I could help,” Caffrey said, keeping steady eye contact. “He’s good, but I’m better. I could help you catch him.”  
  
“I can catch him myself,” Peter said. He smiled. “I caught you.”  
  
Caffrey nodded, smiling. “I know,” he said, tilting his head a little. “I’ve been doing some research- you could ask to have me released into your custody. I could work for you. Maybe you can catch him, but I can help you do it quicker.”  
  
Peter shook his head. “You’re a flight risk,” he said. “No judge will agree to release you.”  
  
“I’m wearing the damper,” Caffrey said, a note of pleading creeping into his voice. “I could wear a tracking anklet, too. The new ones are uncrackable.”  
  
Peter shook his head again. God help him, he felt sorry for Caffrey. “But maybe not for a mutant lockpicker,” he said. “Besides, what guarantee do I have that you won’t run straight to Kate if you get out?”  
  
“That’s over,” Caffrey said, flatly, dropping his eyes to the table. “I won’t run.”  
  
“It’s not an option,” Peter told him, wincing a little on the inside at Caffrey’s reaction. Apparently El was right. “If you have information that could help on a case, I could put in a word with your parole board. But realistically, you’re staying put until your four years is up.” It was unfair. If Caffrey hadn’t tested X-gene positive, he wouldn’t be in supermax. He’d be eligible for parole. But the Marshals couldn’t let someone out if they didn’t think they could keep them from running.  
  
Caffrey grimaced, rubbing his temples. He looked tired, suddenly. Pale and drawn. “Look for a signature,” he said, finally.  
  
Peter started. “A _signature_?” he asked. “He would actually sign his work?”  
  
“It won’t be obvious,” Caffrey said. “But I’ve seen his work. He’s good- almost as good as me.” He grinned suddenly, looking more himself. “I signed mine. Look at the bond seals under polarized light sometime.”  
  
“I will,” Peter promised. He wasn’t sure what Caffrey hoped to buy with that coin, but he’d be stupid to turn down a lead.  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
“You found the signature,” Caffrey said, when Peter returned a week later. “Did you bring it? Can I see?”  
  
Peter sighed, and pulled out a file. It contained a plastic-covered sheet of counterfeit bills. Caffrey whistled. “The series 1874 500-dollar note,” he said. “With Lady Victory and the martyr of Antietam. It must have been fun to forge these.”  
  
“Caffrey-” Peter said, in warning tones.  
  
Caffrey just grinned. “I was just observing,” he said, turning away for just a moment. Peter caught the ghost of pain on his face. Then Caffrey turned back, and it was as if nothing had happened. “There are only six unaccounted for, and the last one to come to market went for half a million dollars. And the signature, as you already know, is there in Major General Mansfield’s buttons.”  
  
“You can see that with the naked eye?” Peter asked. “We needed magnification.”  
  
“I’m a mutant,” Caffrey pointed out. “So, the Dutchman is C.H.”  
  
“Does it mean anything to you?” Peter asked.  
  
“No,” Caffrey said. “But I’ll check around.”  
  
Peter snorted. “With who?” he asked. “You don’t see anyone.”  
  
“Do you want my help or not?” Caffrey asked, brusquely.  
  
Peter regarded him carefully. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “See what you can do.”  
  
\---------------------  
  
“Why do you think he’s helping you?” El asked that night, over dinner.  
  
Peter stirred the pasta on his plate. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I was clear to him that I can’t get him out of prison, even on parole. But his information was good, and I can’t afford to ignore that kind of lead. ‘C.H.’ is the closest we’ve gotten to the Dutchman yet.”  
  
El shrugged. “Maybe he wants you to keep visiting,” she said. “Or maybe he’s just bored.”  
  
“Maybe,” Peter said.  
  
\---------------------  
  
When Peter returned a few days later, Caffrey had the chess board out again. “You can have white again,” he said. He looked tired and rumpled, for all he was clean-shaven and his hair was carefully combed.  
  
“You said you had a lead,” Peter said, sitting down.  
  
“Humor me,” Caffrey said, smiling brilliantly.  
  
Peter shrugged. “If beating me at chess really entertains you, then who am I to argue?” He pushed his pawn forward.  
  
“Who says I’m going to beat you?” Caffrey asked.  
  
Peter snorted. “I’ve played you before.”  
  
“Maybe today is your lucky day,” Caffrey said.  
  
“I’m surprised you’re not a poker man,” Peter said, conversationally.  
  
Caffrey shrugged. “I play,” he said. “Not for fun, though. I never met anyone who could bluff me.”  
  
“I guess that’s true,” Peter allowed. It was a funny thought, that Caffrey had been cheating at card games for years without ever knowing that he was doing it. Did it count as cheating if you couldn’t help it? It probably counted to the people Caffrey had fleeced.  
  
“I could try it now,” Caffrey said, thoughtfully. “Maybe not, though. I’m not sure I could stop myself from trying to tell whether the other players were bluffing.”  
  
“And that’s bad?” Peter asked.  
  
Caffrey smiled, wanly. “It’s... uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m not crazy about solitary, but not being around people probably makes this easier.” He tapped the collar.  
  
“What’s it like?” Peter asked, suddenly. He knew that the X-gene was real. He’d seen mutants in action. But being able to sense emotions? It sounded impossible.  
  
“Before the collar, or now?” Caffrey asked, looking Peter in the eye as he slid his bishop across the board. He shrugged, still smiling. “Before- I don’t know. Like nothing. Like normal. Now- it’s like having my head wrapped in a blanket. And if I try to listen too hard-” he shrugged again. “I think I found your Dutchman,” he said.  
  
Peter’s eyes went wide. “Really?” he asked. “Caffrey, if you’re wasting my time-”  
  
“I’m not,” Caffrey said. “Look for a man named Curtis Hagen. He’s an art restorer, but my sources say he’s worked as a forger before. He’s brilliant, but he was never able to make a living on his own art, so...”  
  
“So he turned to making a living on other peoples’,” Peter finished. “I don’t suppose you have admissible proof for this.”  
  
“That’s where you come in,” Caffrey said. “Look- go in carefully. If you spook him, he’ll run. You’ll never see him again.”  
  
Peter leaned back. “Caffrey, why are you doing this?” he asked. “I’ve told you that I can’t get you out on parole.”  
  
Caffrey looked up at him, a wry smile on his face. “Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do. I’ve never helped the cops before.”  
  
“No honor among thieves?” Peter asked, lightly.  
  
Caffrey’s face went serious. “The Dutchman has killed people, Peter,” he said. He shook his head and signaled the guard. “I want to go back to my cell. Come back next week- we’ll talk then.”  
  
\-----------------------  
  
When Peter came back the next week, Caffrey didn’t talk to him. The guards told him that the prisoner was in the infirmary and couldn’t take visitors. Peter was suspicious; Caffrey had conned people into believing he was sick before. Peter flashed his badge to be taken back to see Caffrey in the infirmary.  
  
Later, he wished he hadn’t. He didn’t need the memory of Caffrey, handcuffed to the bed, sobbing and shaking and streaked with his own vomit.  
  
The nurse told him that this was all routine. “He’s in here two, three times a week,” she told him. “He’s never any trouble. We give him meds, but mostly we just have to wait it out.”  
  
Peter had studied Caffrey’s files extensively. There was no hint of anything like this in them. There was something wrong, and Peter needed to know what it was.  
  
\------------------------  
  
Peter requested Caffrey’s medical files as soon as he got back to the office. Peter was right- this was new. Caffrey’s past medical history was fine. Evidence of a few major injuries, but nothing worse than Peter might have expected, given what he knew about Caffrey’s “alleged” escapades.  
  
There was a thick sheaf of paper about the X-gene test, and the results, and the subsequent evaluation of Caffrey’s abilities. Peter read those with fascination. He couldn’t help but think, as he’d always thought about Caffrey- _what a waste_. _What amazing abilities, what talent, and all wasted on these stupid scams_.  
  
But Peter didn’t know what to make of the section on the damping collar. It didn’t shut down mutant abilities per se. What it did was put up a distortion field so that Caffrey couldn’t use his empathic abilities on anyone. It also, apparently caused frequent headaches- mild to extremely severe- and the occasional seizure. Which, according to the file, was just to be expected and they had them under control. By putting the collar on him, they had taken a healthy young man and given him a chronic, painful, and possibly dangerous medical condition.  
  
Peter knew that Caffrey’s mutant abilities made him a security risk, but this- this wasn’t _fair._ It was one thing to lock a prisoner up, and another to make him sick and in pain. Peter pushed the files away from him and called El.  
  
“You have to do something about it,” she said, firmly, when he’d explained.  
  
“I don’t have any authority over the way prisoners are treated,” Peter said. “That’s up to Corrections. If they were abusing him, then I could report them. But this is legal.”  
  
El shook her head. “There has to be something you can do,” she insisted.  
  
Peter frowned. “I could try to get him transferred to the Vault. It’s a mutant prison, so they wouldn’t have to put the collar on him there. But El, it’s a bad place. That’s where the super-criminals go- murderers and terrorists and so on. Caffrey’s- he’s not like that. But if it’s that, or he has to wear that collar for the next four years...”  
  
“Is there some other way to block his abilities than the collar?” El asked. “Or a better collar, one that won’t hurt him?”  
  
Peter frowned some more, thinking. Was Caffrey helping with the investigation in the hope that Peter would find out about this and do something about it? In the end, it didn’t matter. Peter wasn’t going to let him suffer, not if there was anything he could do about it.  
  
\------------------------  
  
It was a little over an hour’s drive to North Salem. Peter watched the city give way to green and trees. He left the city so rarely that he sometimes forgot how beautiful the countryside could be. Finally, he pulled up to the gate he was looking for. He could barely see a sprawling home far down the drive. He reached over and hit the intercom button. “Hello?” he said, putting on his best FBI voice. “I’m Agent Burke, from the FBI. I called about an appointment?”  
  
There was a long pause, and then a voice said “Come on up.”  
  
He was met at the end of the drive by a handsome, brown-haired young man wearing red sunglasses. “Hello,” he said, holding out a hand for Peter to shake. “I’m Scott Summers. Welcome to the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.”  
  
Peter shook his hand. It was a little surreal being on the grounds of what was generally considered to be a training camp for mutant terrorists. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.  
  
“We’re happy to have you,” Summers said. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you up to Professor Xavier’s study.”  
  
The house was beautiful, all wood paneling and open spaces. It managed to look elegant without being forbidding. “Classes are currently in session, or there would be students everywhere,” Summers offered. “By the way, for the safety and privacy of our students, please don’t wander around while you’re here. If you need anything, I’d be happy to take you wherever you need to go.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Do you work here?” he asked.  
  
“I help out where I can.” He smiled. “I’m also a graduate of the school, if you were wondering.”  
  
Peter _had_ been wondering. Summers had no obvious mutation, but then again, neither did Caffrey. Before he had to work out an answer, though, they rounded the corner and stopped in front of a door. Summers smiled at Peter, and then began walking away. “He’s ready for you. Have a good visit, Agent Burke.”  
  
“Thank you,” Peter said, wondering if Xavier had just communicated with Summers through his famous telepathy. Tentatively, Peter knocked on the door. “Hello?” he said.  
  
“Hello, Agent Burke,” a voice said. “Please, come in.”  
  
Charles Xavier was an ordinary-looking man. Bald, dressed in a dove-gray suit and seated in a wheelchair. Out-of-context, you wouldn’t have thought that he was one of the most famous (or infamous) mutants in the world. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Peter said politely, sitting down in an offered armchair.  
  
Xavier’s study was lined with books. It might have looked like the caricature of what a headmaster’s study should look like, except that Peter could see that the books were well-used. Xavier smiled. “What do you think of my school?” he asked, gently.  
  
Peter smiled back. “I haven’t seen much of it,” he said.  
  
“If you’re interested, Scott would be happy to take you on a tour later,” Xavier offered.  
  
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Peter said. He had to admit to a certain curiosity.  
  
Xavier nodded, turning to a table. “Tea?” he asked.  
  
Peter shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said.  
  
Xavier poured for himself anyway, spooning in sugar and milk. “So,” he said, sipping at his cup. “What can we help the FBI with?”  
  
“I just have some questions,” Peter said. He wasn’t really here on official business, but there was no need to point that out. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file. “Worthington Industries has the contract with the New York Department of Corrections to provide restraint technology for mutant prisoners housed in non-mutant facilities.”  
  
“Yes, I was aware,” Xavier said. He leaned forward and accepted the file, balancing his teacup in one hand. He flipped the file open, nodding. “We offered to consult on these, but DOCCS felt that we might have a conflict of interest.” He smiled. “They questioned our sincerity in helping them keep mutants locked up.”  
  
“If mutants commit crimes, they should be subject to the same laws as the rest of us,” Peter said.  
  
“I couldn’t agree more,” Xavier said. “But some of our people have been persecuted- locked up for crimes they didn’t commit, or goaded into committing crimes to defend themselves. It’s a complex problem.”  
  
“I’m sure it is,” Peter said. “But that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about. I was hoping you could tell me more about these restraint technologies- how safe they are. If there are alternatives that won’t compromise prison security.”  
  
Xavier sipped his tea. “There are always alternatives,” he said. “Would you mind telling me why you are looking into this? I hope you will take no offense if I observe that federal agents are not usually concerned with the safety of mutant prisoners.”  
  
Peter bristled. “The psi-damper collars,” he said. “They make the prisoners sick- migraines and worse. I’m _concerned_ about that.”  
  
Xavier nodded, smiling slightly. “We’d be happy to give you any information you need,” he said.  
  
\------------------------  
  
Caffrey looked tired as he was led into the visiting room again, but he still flashed Peter a smile. “To what do I owe the honor?” he asked. “Do you have anything new on Hagen?”  
  
Peter shook his head. “He’s keeping his nose clean at the moment,” he said. “Unless evidence appears linking him to one of his past crimes, we’re going to have to wait for him to screw up.”  
  
“So how can I help?” Caffrey asked, leaning on one elbow. “Hagen’s smart- he worked clean. It’ll be nearly impossible to get enough proof to charge him on those Civil War notes.”  
  
Peter hesitated. “Caffrey,” he said, his voice low, “Why are you doing this?”  
  
Caffrey looked back at him, his eyes brilliant blue. “Call me Neal, Peter. Surely, we’ve reached a first name basis by now.”  
  
“Don’t change the subject, _Neal_ ,” Peter said. “I need to know.”  
  
Caffrey- Neal- turned to the side, his eyes darting to the guard and back to Peter. Finally, he laughed. “I wish I knew what you thought of me,” he said, wryly. “I always used to know that sort of thing.”  
  
“Welcome to the rest of the world,” Peter said, shrugging.  
  
“It’s not a big secret why I’m helping on your case,” Neal said, shaking his head. “You’ve probably already figured it out. I’m bored, I’m alone, and I’m hoping that maybe you can get me out of here. Which I know is a long shot, but it’s not like I’ve got a lot of other options.” He didn’t look directly at Peter.  
  
Peter tilted his head down, looking closely at Neal. “Why haven’t you tried to run? And don’t tell me you couldn’t do it, even here. I know better than to underestimate you.”  
  
Neal laughed. “Run _where?_ ” he asked. “Even if I broke out of the prison, I can’t get this collar off without hurting myself. I’m assured that it’s uncrackable.” He was still smiling, but he looked pale and drawn. He stood, suddenly. “If I hear anything about Hagen, I’ll let you know,” he said.  
  
“Likewise,” Peter told him.  
  
\--------------------  
  
Hughes leaned out of his office, directing a double-fingered point at Peter. Peter straightened his tie and made the long walk up the stairs.  
  
“Hi, Reese,” he said, smiling.  
  
Hughes sighed and pointed at a chair. “Sit down,” he said. “Peter, would you like to explain to me why DOCCS thinks you’re trying to do their job for them?”  
  
“I submitted a report regarding the care of mutant prisoners,” Peter said, carefully. “There were actionable suggestions in it.”  
  
Hughes sighed again- longer this time. “This is about Caffrey, isn’t it?”  
  
“He’s been helpful to us on the Dutchman case,” Peter pointed out. “And I’m not trying to get him special privileges. I’m just suggesting alternatives to the restraints they’re currently using on him.”  
  
“Corrections doesn’t see it that way,” Hughes said. “Caffrey is a security nightmare, Peter; they’re doing the best they can.”  
  
“They’re not, Reese,” Peter said, firmly. “The psi-damper they fitted him with is making him sick. There are other dampers available that would solve the problem- as I showed in my report.”  
  
Hughes shook his head. “You don’t have any authority over prisoner restraint, Peter. As long as he’s in Sing Sing’s custody, their warden has the final say. And he says things remain as they are.”  
  
Peter pursed his lips. “What if he wasn’t in Sing Sing’s custody anymore?”  
  
“You can’t be advocating sending Caffrey to the Vault,” Hughes said, frowning.  
  
“He could be remanded to my custody on a work-release agreement,” Peter said, half-unable to believe he was advocating this. “There’s precedent, especially for convicts with specialized skillsets. And you can’t argue that Caffrey doesn’t qualify on those grounds.”  
  
“The Marshals will never sign off on that, Peter!” Hughes crossed his arms. “Caffrey’s a mutant and an escape artist. You can’t guarantee that he won’t run.”  
  
“He’d have a tracking anklet as well as one of the newer model dampers- and we can fit that with GPS, too. He may be a mutant, but he can’t turn invisible to satellites. And with all due respect, sir, it’s unfair that his X-gene status is such an important consideration.” Peter lifted his chin, daring Hughes to argue with him.  
  
Hughes didn’t take the bait. “Are you sure you want to do this, Peter?” he asked. “It would mean your career if you were wrong. You’re too promising an agent to throw everything you’ve worked for away for some con.”  
  
Hughes was right. Peter knew he was right- and Peter loved the FBI more than anything in his life except El.  
  
Hughes sighed. “Go home and think about it, Peter,” he said. “Talk it over with El.”  
  
\---------------------  
  
“Hughes is right,” Peter said, bleakly. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s crazy. Even if they released him to me, he’d run and we’d lose everything.”  
  
El smiled. “It’s not crazy,” she told him.  
  
He looked at her desperately. “How is it not crazy?” he asked.  
  
She smiled at him again, that warm, liquid smile that always made him feel better. “Well, why are you doing it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.  
  
“I do,” she said, as though that settled it. “You’re doing it because what’s happening to Neal Caffrey isn’t fair, and there’s something in your power to do to fix it. That’s the kind of man you are.”  
  
“And he might be able to help me break the Dutchman case,” Peter said.  
  
“That too,” El said, her eyes sparkling. “And no matter what, we wouldn’t lose everything, Peter. We’d still have each other, and that’s what matters to me.”  
  
“I do like my job and my house, though,” Peter said, mournfully.  
  
“Me too,” she told him. “But I also trust your instincts.”  
  
\------------------  
  
Neal stepped outside the gates, looking small and cold in his pea coat.  
  
“Let me see them,” Peter said.  
  
Neal looked blissfully happy to be outside. He smiled and showed his ankle, the slim grey box lit green. Then he pulled down the collar of his turtleneck to show off the collar. It was smaller than the last one; less obtrusive and clunky.  
  
“How’s the new collar?” Peter asked.  
  
“Feels better already,” Neal said. “I understand I have you to thank for that.”  
  
Peter ignored that. “Do you understand how this works?”  
  
“I’m being released into the custody of the FBI under your supervision, I got a new collar, and this thing chafes my leg. Anything I’m missing?” He sauntered toward the car.  
  
“Yeah,” Peter said, sternly. “If you run, I will catch you. And then you’re back in prison for good and back on the old collar. You’re going to be tempted to run. Don’t.”  
  
“I told you,” Neal said, a hint of sadness crossing his face. “I’ve got nothing to run for.”  
  
Peter nodded. “This is a temporary situation,” he said. “My bosses weren’t thrilled about it. Help me catch the Dutchman, and we might have the leverage to make it permanent.”  
  
“Now that you mention it,” Neal said, grinning cockily, “I’ve heard something new about a currency counterfeiting scheme.”  
  
“Tell me about it on the way,” Peter said, getting into the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Kate left Neal immediately after he was sent to prison because he has the ability to manipulate emotions, and she couldn't be sure that he hadn't done it to her- after all, she changed her life pretty drastically for him. He didn't really try to argue with her about it out of a sense of guilt. The horrible thing is, he really did manipulate and control her, albeit unintentionally. It's all very sad and tragic, really.
> 
> In the show, there are a few comments about Neal being in supermax, but when we see him in prison, he isn't, really. But here, I have him actually in supermax for the reasons mentioned.
> 
> Steven Russell is a con man who walked out of Texas prisons no less than four times. He's currently in maximum security for the rest of his life, because Texas Corrections really has no sense of humor at all about that sort of thing.
> 
> Mozz is, of course, Neal's contact on the Dutchman thing. They communicate via a fiendishly elaborate code in letters that appear to come from innocuous subscribers to Mugshot Monthly. Mozz is also a mutant. He actually had a pretty good suspicion that Neal was a mutant as well, but never told him.
> 
> Neal was trying to con Peter into helping him out of prison from the very beginning of this story. However since Peter was eventually aware of all the relevant issues- Neal really was being hurt by the collar, which is why he was so desperate to get out, and Neal really was willing to help on the case- it doesn't count as much of a con. More a desperate plea for help.


End file.
